


Baptism By Fire.

by WittyRose



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty at times, I have no idea what I'm doing with tags, M/M, Slow Burn, angsty danse, before any fraction ending, merging two fallouts, rare pare, time to let Danse have resolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-10-29 11:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10852947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WittyRose/pseuds/WittyRose
Summary: "Everyone has secrets. Everyone has something they don't want everyone to know. It's just some are unlucky enough for others to find out before they're ready."Desperate to learn about who he is, Danse heads off to find out more about himself. With a rather annoying shadow trailing beside him it leads to be an interesting trip. One that leads to the Capital Wasteland and a truth that Danse could never have guessed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I fail at titles and summaries but hopefully it won't chase you away. I have never fully ventured into writing into this fandom, though I have wanted to for a long time. So...hopefully it isn't that horrible. Any critique on how to make anything better is loved and will be worked with. Anyways I hope you enjoy your time here.

  

  
Chapter: 1

 

\----

  

" _To the heart and mind_  
_Ignorance is kind_  
_There's no comfort in the truth_  
_Pain is all you'll find_ "

   
-'Careless Whisper' George Michael

  

\-----

  

The bottle rolls along his wrists, still as chilled as when it was first handed to him, though empty now (he wishes it was something stronger than beer that was grabbed on the last raid), as he absentmindedly stares at the chipped sidewalk. His mind is running a thousand different ways, flying over everything that has happened this week. Replaying every moment; dissecting and turning every word and movement- from both ends- inside out trying to make sense of what his life is now.

 

In a simple week everything he knew and loved was ripped away from him. His body had failed him several times growing up. Danse can remember when he broke his leg a week into boot camp when he first joined the Brotherhood, or when he had his arm chewed on by a wild dog before Haylen was able to shoot it dead.

 

But despite it all he knew he could always trust his memories, his mind was the one sound part of him. Both good and bad. He knew who his childhood friends were, knew what the sunset looked like at the Capital Wasteland from his hideout under Rivet City's bridge, and to the lesser extent he could remember small flashes of his parents. How his father laughed almost silently or how his mother hummed to the songs on the radio. Now though, he found himself questioning every second.

 

Where did Danse end and he begin?

 

What memories were true, what ones were manufactured? Could he truly trust anything he thought or felt? Nate felt confident that he was trustworthy. But was he?

 

His arms continue their movement, rolling the bottle. A chilled wind rolled along the rebuilt Sanctuary, teasing goosebumps along his arms. Eyes stared at the bottle, at his wrists that moved and held the bottle above the ground. Was his body real? Was any part of it real? Danse knew that synths were nothing more than synthetic skin (no matter how real it felt), nothing more that synapses and gears and pistons moving to make his body live. Synthetic blood and lymph coursing through every part of his body.

 

But, a traitorous part of his mind scratched at him, he reacted like a real person- he shivered when he was cold, sweat when he was hot, he laughed when Haylen told a new joke she had heard, he cried in private for the death of each of his friends. Did that not make his body real? He bled when cut, his broken leg had hurt- that pain had been real.

 

He stares unblinking trying to wrap his mind around what was real and what was fake. What had been black and white before now was greatly blurred, grays of every shade now existed in his life. So much that he was unsure of anything.

 

Anything other than that he desperately wanted- no, needed- another beer.

 

As if called into existence by willpower alone, a chilled, slightly wet bottle pops into his vision. Danse stares at the bottle unmoving, blinking at it, wondering if he had a new ability to make beer appear by thought alone.

 

"You're thinking way too hard for someone without anything to drink to help wash down the bitter thoughts."

 

Deacon's smiling face appears into Danse's line of sight, eyes hidden by the same sunglasses. Yet Danse can feel the exact moment that his gaze slides off of him and towards the party that is going on in the distance. He follows the movement while grabbing at the chilled bottle, setting the empty one at his feet, muttering a quick thanks under his breath.

 

The music and laughter (and in some cases drunken singing) fades as it reaches towards where Danse has decided to hide. Friends gathering at a fire pit would be something that Danse normally would join- though slightly reluctantly. Instead, he finds himself sitting here lost in his thoughts alone.

 

Or he had been as Deacon takes an empty portion of Danse's step that he has been sitting on for several hours now. He wants to chase the other man away, wants to be alone in his thoughts- no matter how self-destructive they become. But he knows how Deacon is, knows that if he tries to shoo him away he would only find a reason to sit closer, to become more annoying. Instead, he rolls the bottle around, trying to decipher the worn- decades, if not centuries old- label.

 

"I'd ask a cap for your thoughts," Deacon sips from his bottle watching the group that sits near the fire pit. "But I have a feeling you're thinking some expensive thoughts."

 

It is no secret of the irony that has become Danse's life. About how he went from one of the best in the Brotherhood (advocating for the eradication of every non-human on this godforsaken earth) to being the one thing that many loathed the most.

 

And Deacon had the front row seat for the entire event, having had tagged along with Nate when he had been tasked with 'putting Danse down.' He had the front row seat to watching Danse beg for his life; to watch him nearly break down at the thought of dying while kneeling on the dirtied ground. He can still remember the feel of the rocks digging into his knees, the taste of the dirt on his tongue.

 

Instead of dwelling on such thoughts Danse twists the cap off of his bottle and tosses it into the street. He is sure Nate will complain later when he finds the abandoned bottles and caps littering the street. For someone who now lives in a post apocalyptic world, it is weird how particular he is over cleanliness.

 

The beer is bitter as it slides down Danse's throat. "Just thinking of the comedy my life has become. Should be charging caps for tickets to it." His voice falls flat, even to his own ears, and winces. He wants to add something, change how devoid of everything that had sounded, but really what could change the events?

 

It is a rare moment where Danse watches Deacon grab for words. What does one say at a time like this? 'It's going to be OK,' is nothing more than an infuriating lie.

 

"Not a comedy," Deacon whispers into his drink so quietly he is not completely sure if he had really heard him correctly. "More like the plot twist from an action movie."

 

Danse shakes his head, smirking at just his wrong he was. No action here, except dodging bullets if any of his old crew were to catch sight of him. No damsel to rescue, no heroes welcome at the end of the mission.

 

"No, really," legs cross and they stretch out, arms stretching over the stoop and inching towards the threshold, beer bottle tapping against the chipped tiles.

 

The ex-Paladin stares at the other man, eyes slowly drawing down the long body. Had Deacon really always been that tall, that lithe?

 

"Trust me," arms fold behind his head as the bottle rests precariously in two fingers, liquid sloshing against the sides as the bottle shakes in the grasp. It is Deacon's voice, the smug smile hidden behind his words that breaks Danse from his stare. "Everyone has secrets. Everyone has something they don't want everyone to know. It's just some are unlucky enough for others to find out before they're ready."

 

"Yeah," Danse drains another mouthful of the bitter beer as he glances up at the sky, the stars are bright as they sparkle and twinkle in the sky. He hates it, wishes for the cloudy skies that the Capital always had. It made the world seem so much more manageable seeing an end to the universe, even if it was a false end. "Then what is yours? If you know mine- saw mine- shouldn't I know yours?"

 

There is a sudden movement of Deacon sitting up, holding a finger up beside his smirking face, beer bottle barely being held. "Ahh, but you haven't paid to see that yet. Maybe soon you'll get a sneak peek of part of it."

 

Danse wants to demand more, demand he explains what he means. What sneak peek? Should he be barricading the door at night, looking over his shoulder on patrols during the afternoon? But before he can even form a question Deacon is muttering about the cold while walking towards the fire pit.

 

Instead, he downs the rest of his drink, setting the empty bottle with the other, before standing and slipping into the house that he had claimed as his. Even through the closed door that he leans against Danse can still feel the heavy stare from Deacon. Feels the eyes burning into his back and prying at his soul.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm sorry that this chapter is slow-ish, I needed to get rid of some of the characterization and sadly it just went into this chapter. But good news, this should be the last slow chapter. 
> 
> Despite several rewrites I still am kind of- ehh- with this chapter. I promise to do better from now on with these chapters!

  
_"I don’t like my mind right now_   
_Stacking up problems that are so unnecessary_   
_Wish that I could slow things down_   
_I wanna let go but there’s comfort in the panic"_

 

_-'Heavy' by Linkin Park_

 

_x-x-x-_

 

_Her screams pierce through the already thinning, frazzled nerves. Nausea rolls._

 

_None of them are not human, they are machines. Highly advanced machines. Machines that when defective need to be fixed. Fixed. Turned off and restarted after repairs._

 

_The girl sniffs, tears sliding down her cheeks._

 

_At least the screams have stopped._

 

_"I'm not defective," the girl sobs. She looks barely old enough to be considered an adult- though she never ages. "It's not wrong for me to want to be free is it! How is deciding what I want in my life considered defective?"_

 

_She pulls at her restrained arms, useless hope for freedom. Freedom that is forever lost._

 

_Her eyes lock onto the unwavering gazes of everyone in the room; allows them to know of the crime they are all about to commit._

 

_Nausea grips tightly._

 

_Hands are antsy._

 

_Fingers curling against fabric._

 

_Sweat building._

 

_Eyes glance over to the only other person in the back._

 

_Blue locks with brown. An entire conversation shared silently between the two._

 

_Blue breaks the gaze first, returning it back to the front._

 

_"_ _Please no. No no no no no no," the girl mutters clenching eyes shut tightly as the machine tips her back. Loud mechanical whirring drowns out the voice, though her lips never stop moving._

 

_Light slams into the room as the machine sparks to life. The girl's back arches sharply as restrained limbs fight against the electricity shooting through her body. A final cry breaks through her lips before her body slouches lifelessly._

 

_Nausea builds, burning the throat as shaky breaths escape through flared nostrils._

 

_'I'm not defective,' rings long after the room has emptied._

 

_x-x-x-_

 

Despite both being military men Danse and Nate are polar opposites. Danse prefers the laser and plasma that he has grown up with; he likes the feel of the seamless firing, the absence of recoil. Nate loves to use sniper rifles, taking enemies out without them ever finding where he is hiding.

 

Danse has lived through much, has seen the worst this world can bring and has grown accordingly. He killed his friend, his brother in many ways, after seeing the monster he had become. Through the years and miles traveled Danse has seen the world he knows crumble as the mutants continuously took over.

 

He has had friends kidnapped and replaced by the Institute; feels the same paranoia every time a MIA soldier returns abruptly. On cold nights he can still remember the moment he realized that his girlfriend had been replaced. He can still feel the bile that burns at his throat as he aimed his Brotherhood issued rifle between her eyes. He can still see the blood staining the ground as he had to force himself to look away from her dead eyes.

 

But what Nate has gone through would break most people. He was there the moment the bombs fell, watched the detonation that changed everything- brought the life Danse knows. He had to watch helplessly as the love of his life was killed and their baby kidnapped.

 

Only to awaken to a destroyed world and where everything tries to kill you but also working tirelessly to find his missing son. Only, after months and miles traveled, to find out that he was the leader of the boogeyman. Every time Nate passes along the C.I.T. Ruins he stares longingly at the roof, as if trying to see something. Something that only he can see.

 

Yet instead of letting it destroy him Nate built himself up and tirelessly works to make the world better. Little by little he rebuilds settlements for people to live in (using all of his prewar knowledge to build houses and stairs that could survive grenade blasts).

 

He is there to help solve whatever wrongs he can. Overnight his name has become synonymous with an all around hero. Legendary stories has brought settlers from outside the Commonwealth to see this miraculous man- to see the General of the newly formed Minutemen, to witness the man who has flown through the ranks of the Brotherhood faster than any others, to see the protector of Synths that run from their slavers by expanding the Railroad.

 

And has managed to accept everyone from human to ghoul to super mutant to raider. Sometimes Danse wishes he could be a little more like Nate. But he knows wishing on the stars is useless.

 

_x-x-x-_

 

The front window is opened allowing for a gentle breeze to air out the normally stuffy house. The chatter of a thriving community drifts through the air at a peaceful flow; between the thick stomps of the pack bramin from traveling merchants, to the thumping of hammers, and occasional shouts from kids as they play in between the houses. Fresh mutfruit fills the air as plants are picked clean, some being smashed for jams later while others are placed in large baskets to be shared. Laugher, shouts and an occasional argument breaks the calm of nature as people live and thrive.

 

Danse is oblivious to all the distractions that happen around him as he slowly takes apart a plasma rifle. His right foot taps against the empty whisky bottle lying on the floor.

 

The table is covered with a worn sheet, protecting the scratched and worn top from the plasma residual as he takes each component apart, scrubbing until it shines. For every component he replaces Danse checks and rechecks the smoothness of firing and of reloading the weapon. A misfire or a stuck cartridge can mean the difference between life and death in the heat of battle.

 

He moves almost robotically on the weapons, his mind miles away as muscle memory takes over. Though backbreaking being bent over the table for hours on end it is soothing to Danse. The familiarity of taking a nonfunctioning weapon and being able to bring it a new life. The smell of the grease and the way the plasma left a tingling on his tongue calms Danse completely, perhaps for the first time in weeks. His mind stops the moment he slowly disassembles his first gun for the day. The bone aching fatigue from broken nightmares evaporates completely.

 

Even with the calmness of the job there are days that he wants to quit. He wants- no, craves- to be out on the field. A couple times he has found himself almost asking to go on settlement runs for the Minutemen. After being a soldier for so many years it kills him to be benched. Forced to watch those with so little experience go out and fight.

 

He remembers back at the Brotherhood after returning from missions and gathering around the small lantern swapping tales. What first would start as just recounting aspects of the mission would turn into a contest to see who was the bravest (strongest, did the most kills or had the most bullet holes).

 

He misses those moments. Wants to be able to clap the settlers on their backs and swap stories around the burning trash can. Start a new tradition and help build up the defenses that head out daily. One can only do so much within the confines of a settlement.

 

But he knows it will never happen, by now Danse knows that his name is on the wall at the back of the Prydwen. He knows that Maxson would never allow for Danse's true self to be revealed. It would be a smack the Brotherhood's metaphorical face, the deepest shame to be brought to Maxson. Not only had the Institute managed to infiltrate one of the strongest military strongholds (especially since the Enclave was nothing more than nomads on the run) but that he had been promoted so highly in the ranks.

 

No. No, Maxson would have cleaned up by now. Spreading the tale of Danse being killed in action, a hero's death having died preserving everything he had been taught to believe in. His name etched into the back of the Prydwen, with collection of names of those fallen in battle. Those who knew would be sworn to secrecy. The perfect cover up. And Maxson would remain safe from embarrassment.

 

He knows the protocol for seeing members who are on listed on the wall. Shoot first, ask questions later (if ever). The risk of the Institute replacing a dead soldier was too high of a risk. Collateral damage of accidentally killing a brother or sister that was attempting to return after barely surviving was the safer option for the group. They held too much technology to allow anyone to sneak into their ranks.

 

Despite knowing this part of him wants to run home, run back to the family he knows. Accept death with a smile if it were to come to that.

 

But Haylen, she had worked so hard to keep him safe. It would be an insult for him to just toss his life and her sacrifice away.

 

The throbbing behind his eyes is growing as he sets the latest, cleaned and repaired, laser pistol on the scratched tabletop. Danse drops his face into palms, trying to force his mind away from his family and past. The past was best left there, bringing it back never did anything good.

 

Thumbs slide along his eyebrows, trying to remember what Nate had said about applying pressure to relieve the headaches he has been getting.

 

Really, did he have to be so defective to actually get daily pains; could not the Institute had made him better somehow. Without the daily headaches and the panic filled nightmares that leaves him barely able to function.

 

Thumbs rub at his temples, eyes closing as he tries to remember what Nate says will help. Tries to pull himself out of the past as he wills himself to ignore the electric pains that radiate to the base of his skull.

 

Part of him idly wonders if his component is malfunctioning somehow causing the pains, but even if it was no one was able to fix it.

 

He has been approached more than once by Railroad agents offering a complete mind wipe, swearing his life would be better. But something deep inside of Danse stops himself from ever agreeing to it. Something beyond personal beliefs or even the lingering distrust for the group.

 

Something in his core screams out against the memory wipe, begging him to stay how he is. Stay safe by hiding in plain sight and remembering who he is.

 

Except Danse is uncertain of who he is. He thought he knew.

 

Now he is nothing more than a code name, M7-97, a rogue Synth that has not been contacted by the Institute. He is confused on why they have not come to ask for information or even to decommission him.

 

Shakily he reaches for the pistol, checking and rechecking every inch of the gun, knowing he has fixed it to perfection, yet needing something to do as he tries to take his mind off everything.

 

The plastic is chilled against his flushed forehead as Danse leans elbows on the chipped table, barrel of the gun resting against his face, muzzle pointed towards the ceiling. He needs to move, return the finished guns to the makeshift armory. But he is too comfortable like this. Unable and unwilling to move. Fingers gripping the handle tightly as one slides over the trigger. His finger pulls at the trigger, empty clip echoing through the small house.

 

He breathes deeply and slowly, trying to remember a third of the meditative spew that Nate is often coaching Piper in when she is frantically tossing arms around shouting about the newest story (or more correctly how her story is being blocked). He keeps his eyes closed, breathing in slowly and deeply ('have the air slowly slide down to your toes' Nate's baritone voice rumbles in his mind). In the same measured movement breathes out. His hands loosen their death grip on the gun as it clatters onto the table before dropping to the cracked, wooden floor.

 

It takes him a few seconds before he reaches down for the dropped gun and adds it to the collection of finished weapons. He moves robotically, finishing his chores for the day.

 

_x-x-x-_

 

Deacon sees everything, even things he should not possibly be able to see. He has an uncanny way of dissecting secrets. Finding lies hidden within the truths that people tell. He is the one that can find the casual flings before anyone else. Sees secrets before they are even a whisper in the wind.

 

He tells himself it is because of his job for the Railroad. He needs to be able to pick out a threat within the first five minutes of talking to a person. Too many lives depend on him keeping secrets and finding trouble before it can finish the first syllable of his group's name.

 

But he knows the uncanny ability comes from being a natural liar. A old world saying of the pot and kettle rings in the back of his head. He lies so often, bends the truth until only a fraction of it survives his words, that it makes it easy for him to find those who try the same techniques.

 

Many of the settlers comment behind his back about him as they compare stories and question his ever changing appearance. He has heard the remnants of their whispered words in the wind and he laughs at how far wrong they are. At how much his hand spun stories have changed. Deacon remembers reading about a prewar game, where a statement is whispered into an ear and passed along, and by the end of the circle they compare how different the statement was from the beginning. This is his real life version of it and it amuses him to no end.

 

His favorite story, without a doubt, has been that he was raised by a brood of Deathclaws after his parents had died. And that was why he was never seen without his sunglasses because the time living inside the Deathclaw cave had changed his eyes. And he lets this be the reason, even plays along with the story adding fuel to the fire when he can.

 

The true reason why is boring, bland and normal. And Deacon is anything but that. With his face constantly changing, and his eyes covered it forces others to focus more on his words. Without being able to decipher his facial expressions they fall deeper into the lies he spins. Allows for lies to taint each syllable.

 

This time though, it is pure observation that allows for Deacon to understand where Danse is coming from. Where his mind is traveling during these moments of weakness. Of how he feels and how he wants everything to go back to how it had been. Deacon knows the feeling of wanting to forget a horrid past and to be able to rewrite every part of your life. Except, Danse's past is not one of his own making- unlike Deacon's.

 

Despite all the good he has done, Deacon knows that his bad karma still is not completely wiped out. It is alone at night that Deacon can still remember the taste of the blood tinged air, the way his blood coursed and pounded in his temples, how teeth grated- his jaw throbbing from the pain. The sight of freshly drawn blood flowing from--

 

Deacon shakes the memories away, shoving them deep into the back of his mind. He faintly remembers High Rise's knowing stare while telling him how repressing memories was worse than to just learning to live and work through them.

 

A perfect example of the broken logic that runs deep within the Railroad; learn to embrace the past- no matter how bad it is, unless it might hurt the Railroad then erase all those memories and toss in some happy and rainbow filled ones. Don't get him wrong, Deacon would die for them, die for the Synths he protects- he just does not agree with every piece of logic they preach.

 

Perhaps he is not the best to try to help Danse; he still awakens every couple hours to the horrors of his past- sweat running down his back. Screams from Switchboard still ring in his head. Blood still stains his hands, though the target has changed over the years.

 

Yet he finds himself drawn to helping Danse. And he pretends to not know why he feels the urge to help. Pretends that it is nothing more than needing to help a synth in pain. Pretends he does not feel the lump in the pit of his stomach.

 

All he knows is his mind is made up, as he disengages himself from the tangling grasp of a spider bush as he heads towards Nate. Determination etched in every inch of his body, seeping from his core.

 

_x-x-x-_

 

Let it be known in the history books for future generations that Nate was the epitome for trying to push a boulder up a cliff. A mossy, blood covered, sheer cliff. For being a smiling, people pleasing, teddy bear of a man when his mind was made up it took a force from above to change it.

 

Deacon almost lies on the armor workbench in exasperation. Nate is determined to keep Danse safely locked up in Sanctuary. And while, yes he can agree that Danse is safe here hiding from the Brotherhood it was not helping his mental wellbeing.

 

Safe from harm from outside factors and safe from harm from himself are two different problems that require two totally different answers.

 

But how do you explain to an unmovable force that you cannot guarantee one hundred percent that no harm would come. Especially in a world where the water burned you if you attempted to bathe in it, where your food attempted to kill you and people throw Molotov's.

 

Danger is around every corner. Safety is a thing of dreams.

 

Deacon is chewing the inside of his mouth, a bad habit he had picked up years ago after having to learn to deal with innocent blood staining his hands, while watching Nate pound the wire cage around a helmet into the correct shape again. His mind running a mile a second as he tries to come to a common ground.

 

"How about just close runs," Deacon purposefully keeps the words Railroad and Dead Drops out of the conversation. Nate has been on enough Railroad runs to know how wonderfully safe those missions are. "He needs to get out of here. Get moving again. You have to know how horrible it has to be for him to stay in one small community for so long. He was a soldier for so long, it has to be killing him to not be able to fulfill missions."

 

Nate pauses for a microsecond, hammer suspended in midair as eyes glass over in memory, and Deacon knows he is slowly winning.

 

"Any whiff of Brotherhood and we run," Deacon draws a cross over his heart while holding his breath. This has to work because he really does not want to knock Nate out and kidnap Danse.

 

Though the thought tossing the muscular man, hog-tied, over his shoulder before slipping past Sanctuary's defenses was as amusing as it was impractical.

 

"Where would you be going?" Nate eyes Deacon far too closely for his liking.

 

Nate has been the only person to ever see though all of his lies without a second's hesitation. Deacon still remembers how calmly Nate had uttered the recall code, eyebrows raised in disbelief the entire time. He was the only one that could call 'bullshit' to all his bluffs- though thankfully silently, with just a raised brow that screamed, 'really you thought I'd buy that.'

 

Deacon steadies his fluttering heart, pushes away the heat that tries to slide along his body and reach his face. Damn Nate and his ability to find the way to try to pull every one of Deacon's secrets. He knows Nate is the one person he cannot lie to, at least not without it getting called out on. And Danse is too important for his lies to impede what will help save him.

 

Therefore Deacon plays his favorite game, truth by omission. He does not out right lie, just conveniently leaves out facts and words.

 

"Just to nearby places, like Red Rocket. Oberland. What's that place called that has the miles of corn?" His voice is steady, eyes locked intently on Nate's gray eyes. "You have to let him go out and feel the air on his face again. Feel the open wilderness. Besides," Deacon smirks leaning against the workbench, he knows he has won, "I'll be watching him. You know you can trust me."

 

_x-x-x-_

 

The strap of the rifle feels awkward after so long, but at the same time feels so right. Fingers slide along the Institute logo imprinted on the weapon. Danse had been unable to get acid to this gun, to burn the vile insignia off of a well crafted weapon. Though they may be enemies, Danse has to admit they have beautiful guns.

 

The first few steps past Sanctuary is shaky as Danse sweats. He knows he is safe, the Brotherhood are never this far out; they see no reason to protect two small settlements when so many others need their help.

 

It is only after the settlement is nothing more than a speck in the distance that Danse feels the real freedom. His heart calms and he can actually enjoy looking around, taking in the scenery that has been locked away for months.

 

'Though the company could have been better,' he thinks while glancing out of the corner of his eye at the other man traveling beside him. Ever since that night on the stoop of his house Danse finds himself overly cautious around Deacon. He watches every movement with his shields up, ready to defend and strike back at any given second.

 

The story of why he was traveling had been vague, with left off sentences that floated away in the wind and noncommittal gestures. Nate had been even less helpful, just suggesting that he should trust Deacon.

 

He scoffs at that idea. Trust was a valuable and rare commodity, something that he would never give up easily. Younger him would have but the world has shown Danse early what foolishly giving away your trust accomplished.

 

"So," eyes scan the skyline, one hand ready at the handle of his gun. Always ready for action, the true mindset of a soldier. "Why are we really out here?"

 

"I have a couple things I need to do. And would love the help from an experienced fighter."

 

That was a more truthful answer than what he was expecting and it sets him off balanced, questions freezing in his mind. He slows his steps, falling behind Deacon, and just stares at the other man.

 

Deacon stops a few steps away, glancing over his right shoulder, smile crossing his face. "Nothing too horrible," Deacon lies freely and with a giant soothing grin on his face. "Just need to help dropping off some packages."

 

Shrugging his shoulders Danse continues to follow Deacon. Even if the mission was shady, and suspiciously sounded heavily coded, it did give him the freedom he has been wanting for weeks. He was not about 'to look a gift horse in the mouth,' if he understood Nate's saying correctly.

 

Besides, and as much as it hurt him to admit it, he was no longer Brotherhood. Other than the Institute and random gangs or raiders or gunners he had no real enemies. Especially not secretive ones, that he strongly suspected certain individuals to be somehow part of.

 

Instead he decides to try this, to freely just be Danse the random person (and secretively Synth) who was Nate's friend and helped with patrols. And not Danse the ex-paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel.

 

And as the sun crests over the mountains off to the east Danse finds the freedom that he has been wanting. A small smile twitches the corners of his mouth, as he matches Deacon's strides walking shoulder to shoulder. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So random fun news, I got a crappy computer that has been broken forever. So writing is...interesting...because I have to write it on my phone, do spelling/grammar/other edits on my phone then go to the computer for 15-20 minutes and hope that it stays on until I can post (I have had to do this chapter 3 times now because of said computer). 
> 
> Also, I want to thank everyone who is reading, kudos, or commenting this story. I love you all and I smile like an idiot and cheer when I get notifications! So thank you so much everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. My computer totally imploded. So now I'm going to be doing this all mobile. Haha, should be fun. Hopefully it all turns out ok.

_x-x-x-_

 

"Singing from heart ache from the pain

Take up my message from the veins

Speaking my lesson from the brain

Seeing the beauty through the pain."

-"Believer' by Imagine Dragons

 

_x-x-x-_

 

_"Those are dangerous words." A heated, warning that is whispered as the body is pressed tightly against his, pushing towards the wall._

_They are dangerous. A dangerous thought to speak, to even let the mind ponder for a second. Less dangerous words have gotten worse endings._

_"But still," the thoughts keep coming out. Mind and mouth disconnected from each other, unable to stop each other from acting._

_A hand is slapped over the mouth, body pressing tightly against the other. Blue eyes drilling into the brown; silent commands issued._

_"Not here, not now, not those thoughts." The voice hisses while glancing around for stragglers._

_'But still...' still echoes silently within despite nodding and silent agreeing._

 

_x-x-x-_

 

Dust and broken pieces of the ruined building rains down on Danse, turning his hair gray. The man coughs, as he hugs his rifle closer to his chest, flattening his body against the half destroyed wall.

An explosion rocks the ground to his left and Danse has to scurry, crawling away from the hole that the grenade has left, pulling his legs towards his chest just seconds before a large chunk of concrete and steel falls. Centimeters shy from crushing his left ankle.

Adrenaline has his hands shaking, his breathing speeding, heart thumping in his chest as he pulls out a drained fusion pack from the gun. Danse curses as he turns the small container upside down trying to find that one last plasma cartridge that he can use. His bag sits alone out in the open between him and Deacon. His pockets long since emptied of plasma cartridges and grenades.

"So!" Deacon is kneeling behind a large, broken lamppost peering cautiously around the corner. The large grin does not meet any part of his face as he stays crouched low, hoping for an opening. They had been careless, that's all Deacon can amount this to. There is no other reason for how so many were able to gather and pin them down, leaving them scurrying and hiding and leaving their supplies behind. "I think we found the people that were tailing us!" He holds his breath as another stream of rapidly fired bullets rain around him in response. The post he somehow manages to hide his entire body behind is slowly being chipped away, as he is finding it harder to keep both his right shoulder and his left foot hidden. He has already kicked his gun to the side of the lamppost for more room, the bullets long since used.

Frustration grasps at Danse as he clings to the empty cartridge, shaking it, while hoping beyond anything for just-

One.

More.

Damned.

Plasma!

But the gun is completely dried up.

Growling in frustration over everything Danse tosses the empty cartridge over the tattered wall. Deacon watches it bounce uselessly on the ground, skittering a few feet away before it stops.

Disbelief colors his words. "You know that never works. And now we have one less cartridge to fill up later."

A choice finger is the response.

Drumming his fingers against the useless rifle Danse glances around, trying to ignore the potshots that the raiders are taking. Enough to keep them pinned down and unable to move- because despite what Nate says, no one can move faster than a bullet. There is only one option and Danse really does not like that option. Knows Deacon will not like it, and definitely knows Nate will not if it is ever breathed in the direction of Sanctuary. But trying to survive is better than dying while holding an empty gun. Besides, even without the Power Armor, he used to be a damned Brotherhood soldier! And it is time to act like one.

He takes a steadying slow breath, trying to decide the best way to start as he crouches onto the balls of his feet. He pushes out the tinging of bullets that are hitting the steel foundations around him. Ignores the plastic clattering of a plasma grenade landing too close to Deacon's hiding place as it rocks the ground. Ignores the sickening feel of fire scorching his left cheek as a raider's aim is almost perfect. Breathing slowly his vision tunnels to the bag alone, body tightening and readying to run.

Deacon barely pieces the movements and the haphazardly made plan seconds before Danse begins moving. "Fuck no!"

Danse takes a second steadying breath before letting the adrenaline move him. Feet push his body out as his right arm tosses the empty rifle behind him. His other hand reaches out for the discarded bag; their only hope of escaping alive.

The stained, brown rucksack has never looked so inviting before. Danse ignores everything around him while focusing on the handle that lies in a puddle of muddy water. Time slows around him as he reaches out, vision focusing and tunneling to nothing but the bag.

The sound of bullets fade away as his heart thuds loudly in his ears, head throbbing with each beat.

The pointer and middle finger miss as he stretches out trying to grasp the handle. His ring finger barely manages to slip around the cloth handle and he clamps a tight fist, refusing to let go even as he feels the unmistakable searing pain of a bullet connecting with his deltoid. He swallows back the scream before turning on point and diving for his old hiding place. Knees skidding along the rough dirt as he hugs the bag tightly to his chest, taking a second to just hold it.

Time speeds back to normal, noises coming back to focus as Danse's world widens back to the entire situation. As he shakily holds the bag against his chest, breaths coming out in shaky pants. His stomach rolls with nausea from the overwhelming pain that shoots through his nerves.

Blood streams down his left arm, coating fingers as he tries to grab at the mismatched collection of grenades they had managed to snatch from abandoned houses. It coats the ammo as he hastily begins dumping the bag out at his feet. He manages to kick some bullets towards Deacon, watching the other man reload his gun and begin firing shots at a record speed.

(Silently, Danse can think of three Knights who would have been jealous of his speed.)

Grasping the pin of a faded, olive green fragmentation grenade in his teeth Danse holds it tightly in his right hand. A bloody hand print stains the chipped wall as he steadies himself, crouched on toes.

Seconds slow as Danse waits for the cue, knowing that the other man will gather the enemies up into a cluster for him.

A sharp whistle fills the air and Danse sees a quick jut of his chin straight ahead. Jumping up just enough to toss the grenade into a cluster of Raiders before quickly slipping back down into hiding- seconds before the blast rocks the ground.

To his right Deacon is carefully lining up deadly shots to the stragglers. He whistles sharply and tilts his head to the left. Danse rips another pin from a new grenade with his teeth, spitting it out as he tosses. His left arm burning as blood runs down his side, but he keeps a death grip on the wall as he readies a light blue cryo grenade, pin between his teeth poised and ready to attack.

At the whistle he springs into action, the two working perfectly together. As the grenade explodes, killing several Raiders, the compacted freezing air slamming against them, freezing their blood within seconds. Deacon slowly rises as he methodically aims and takes out the last stragglers in the group.

Falling back Danse laughs as he feels the sudden let down as adrenaline suddenly stops pumping through his veins. His stomach rolls, body screaming out every injury that was previously hidden. Legs shaking as he pulls himself up, and silently he is relieved to see Deacon fairing almost as well. Sweat coats his skin, sticking hair to his face, as Danse walks closer to the fallen bodies; Deacon is already digging through pockets, pulling out the valuable loot he can find.

Danse shakily nudges the body of a woman, who had to have been no more than her mid-twenties, with the toe of his boot. A small slip of paper falls from her armor's pocket as her leg falls back down, half covering the paper. Confusion etches Danse's face as he leans down, scooping up the paper and holding it in his palm. Most raiders were illiterate, some only having the basic skills to read; it was a rarity to find a raider who was skilled enough to read and write (those usually became leaders and hid behind walls).

His fingers still tremble from the last of the adrenaline leaving his system and it takes several attempts before he can open the letter. It is on a small white scrap paper, the handwriting cramped and scrawling at best. Danse tilts it to the side, trying to decipher the note.

His heart stops as he reads over the note a second time as he still finds the message just as unbelieving. The paper almost slipping from his fingers as the full meaning finally reaches him. Danse is uncertain if he wants to scream or punch something as he clenches his teeth together, breaths coming in heated pants through flared nostrils. Anger consumes him and flows the same path that just moments ago was filled with the need to survive.

Glancing over at Deacon, he can tell the other man has found the wrinkled note on another raider. He crinkles the note before shoving it deep into his pocket. One note on a raider would suggest a random event, someone hoping to find a couple extra caps on the side. Multiple notes suggests someone signed hit and is using the lowest means possible.

He knows there is only so long before Nate catches wind, either by finding the message himself or through the grapevine of friends. And just when he was starting to enjoy the freedom of being out of Sanctuary.

The heels of his hands press against his eyes as his head throbs. His emotions jump from one extreme to another as Danse tries to bring his training back to his mind; tries to remember how to control the emotions that overwhelm him. Right now he wants to scream, cry, punch something and jump off of a building all at once.

Of course! Of course anytime he found anything in life that he enjoyed it had to be ripped away from under him. Every single time.

Deacon walks over to Danse feeling utterly useless. He takes a deep breath, steadying the red hot heat that flows through his veins- he can only imagine what Danse is feeling- before reaching out. He tosses out what might be right or wrong, instead going with what feels right at this moment.

"The bastard," Danse is muttering under his breath, arms unmoving despite the blood that slowly drips from the wound, joining a growing puddle at Danse's feet; reminding Deacon of the medical care that is still needed. Danse repeats the same words over and over, almost as if not remembering where he is. His body trembling in unbridled anger.

Deacon wraps an arm around the other man's shoulders, mindful of the wound, as he pulls gently letting Danse lean against him shoulder. "Don't worry," Deacon squeezes Danse's shoulder, feeling completely awkward and inept at this. He does not do comfort, he does witty jokes that make you want to punch him. Nick is the one that comforts best and at this very second Deacon wishes he can will the detective here. "Nothing is going to change. Except we have a reason to kick the bastard's ass. That and the amount of junk we get to sell is going to raise as more people keep showing up. We'll be swimming in caps soon."

Danse gives a small grunt of aborted laughter. "You suck at this," his voice small and still trembling from the remnants of searing anger. He turns away to grab the last of their newly acquired supplies, never once meeting the other man's eyes as he stares at the ground.

Deacon slaps at the man's uninjured shoulder before tossing his bag over his shoulder. "Yeah get used to it. I'm here all day, every day. Just like a bad radstorm."

Watching Danse walk away while shaking his head at the horrible joke, Deacon pulls out the note from his pocket, glancing at it one last time before crumpling it up and tossing it away.

_'200 caps to whoever can bring back the Synth component of the escaped fugitive Danse. By order of the Brotherhood.'_

Never a boring moment in the wasteland.

 

_x-x-x-_

 

Danse curses loudly when Deacon ties a ripped piece of shirt over the bullet wound to stanch the blood flowing out.

Curses louder when he finds that he cannot stimpack it until the bullet is pulled out (unless he wants the healed wound to be cut open again).

And louder still when Deacon announces, after gathering his bearings, that Goodneighbor is the closest settlement with a known doctor.

Gritting his teeth Deacon shoves the needle of the stimpack into his calf, where the ricochet of a stray bullet grazed him. A soft hiss coming from the injector as the healing medicine is pushed into his leg. Almost immediately, as the needle is pulled out, the muscle starts pushing itself back together, knitting the layers into an almost seamless mark. If he got to it soon enough it will even heal without scarring. He rolls his jeans back down, as he mindlessly scratches at the new, pale pink skin.

"You think after being around Hancock for so long you'd be better with ghouls." His voice trails off part way as he digs into his pockets. Hands still tremble from the after effects of the recent battle. Ten raiders are no joking matter, especially when they are heavily enticed with caps.

"It's not that." Danse leans against the broken wall, ignores the soft patter of dripping blood, as the white fabric is quickly staining red. Ignores the moment that his vision sways, blurring around the edges. The solid wall keeps him steady. "Brotherhood patrols down there a lot. Between the super mutants and..." he pauses shame burning deep in his gut as he wants to avoid this kind of conversation. Civilians never see just what the Brotherhood does, what they say amongst each other, never sees the racism that actually burns quite deep.

In the depths of his mind he can remember another time, another Brotherhood. But that one burned long ago, along with the Elder and his dreams.

Guilt burns inside of him as memories of his actions in the Brotherhood consumes him. No matter what he is now he can never be innocent of horrible crimes.

Sighing he continues, keeping his eyes away from Deacon, not needing to see the look. He has already seen Nate's disgust and it killed a small part of him. He can only imagine what Deacon's would bring (he was just starting to like the man and his annoying jokes too). "And between taking potshots at ghouls that try to slip out of the town. It's a good place to hold up and thin out the undesirables." He voice lowers as he says the last word, head rolling against the rough wall. The fractured brick scratching at his skull feels good, reminds him he is still alive.

"Shit," Deacon hisses under his breath barely managing to keep his voice neutral, sunglasses helping to keep the disgust from showing that he is unable to avoid. He stills for a second, lighter in his hand, as he schools himself.

The wasteland has never been kind or understanding if you were different. Despite how unfair it is, Deacon also knows that kicking a person when he's down never helps anything.

Kettle and pot, Deacon thinks as he runs his thumb along the lighter's lid. Different names, same overall mission. His past flashes in his mind, reminds him that he is not clean of such crimes.

He takes a couple breaths before glancing back at the other man. "Anyways don't worry, we can just shave your head and toss on sunglasses. It works perfectly," Deacon runs a hand over his smooth head smiling widely.

A choice finger is the answer. And the smile widens even more.

"Even still," he pauses to light a cigarette, teeth holding the filter as he greedily sucks in the smoke. Nicotine buzzes through his system, calming frayed nerves. "We can't go anywhere else. That blood's gonna be the perfect trail for another one of these messes." He nods his head towards the dead bodies behind him.

"Yeah sure," Danse really does not feel up for fighting. Even if this has bad idea written all over it. He hopes between the normal civilian armor, the lack of Power Armor and holding a non military issued weapon will be enough to keep him in the background.

Deacon pulls another lungful of nicotine, breathing out slowly before offering the cigarette towards Danse. The other man shakes his head, legs still shaking as he gathers the dropped supplies. Their bag is heavier with the weapons, bullets and intact gear looted from the bodies- more to sell once they get to Goodneighbor.

"You know that doesn't really help." Danse waves away the offending smell from the cigarette.

Yeah, Deacon knows. He also knows this is the better habit than the other options. During his career with the Railroad he has seen too many fall to Jet to help stop the after effects of a soured mission. And all Deacon knows is he never wants to be addicted to that- has seen too many horror stories. All the more reason he gets mad when Nate casually uses it.

Shaking those thoughts away Deacon pulls one last time from the cigarette before carefully snuffing it out on the wall. He pockets the half smoked cigarette and grabs at his newly acquired sniper rifle ('hey they weren't going to need it anymore' and it was a crime to leave such a beauty alone on the side of the road).

"Alright! Let's see how many soldiers we can piss of on one trip!" Deacon tosses an arm around Danse's shoulders, mindful of the bullet wound.

 

_x-x-x-_

 

Goodneighbor was a place for misfits. The drifters that were deemed too poor or strung out for other communities could find refuge within the town's walls. Ghouls flocked for Goodneighbor in hopes of living without the bullying they normally suffered. It was even rumored that Synths could find refuge within the walls- though no one would breath the words, worried about allowing the Institute to come knocking on their doors. Don't mention the boogeyman unless you want to invite him inside.

Just as safe as it was inside for the misfits in this new world, the gaudy colorful sign was refuge for the soldiers that hoped to up their kill counts. Danse had not been lying about the Brotherhood breathing down the walls. One just had to know the correct formation they normally took. With whispered directions Danse was able to skirt around not only the soldiers (though his breath hitched for a second when he saw Knight Morales' armor, hand twitching at his side to grab out for his old friend), but they also successfully were able to skip past the Super Mutants encampment and the Raider camp that laid between them.

The noon sun fell behind the buildings as it began to set as Danse and Deacon slip through the makeshift door, Danse sighing with relief as he glances around. (It really was relief, he tries to tell himself, and not fatigue from the constantly dripping blood that had not stopped.)

Carefully they slip within the walls, Deacon's fingers sliding along the weathered door as he side glances at the wound. During the painfully slow trip as surprise rounds left them having to retrace their steps more often than Deacon preferred. More than once he was dragging a foot behind them, trying to cover up the newly, deep crimson blood trail. A convenient target on their backs.

Even now inside the gates, the two men do not rest for long before they make the long path towards the back of the town. Danse's skin slowly becomes clammy as he wipes his shaky hands on worn jeans for the fourth time in an hour. The trek to the Memory Den is slow but consistent as Danse focuses on putting one foot before the other. He has lost all joking vibe, his heart thudding in his chest and vision swimming.

He blinks once and twice before shaking his head trying to clear the blur that just refuses to leave. Lights taking too sharp of a sheen to them. The drifters doubling and tripling before him, all their movements mimicking the one next to them. His feet stumble and the last thing he hears is Deacon's curse as the world darkens.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways, my muse is taking this a different way than what I expected. But it still is going to have the same ending. Hopefully it was ok.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok I'm hoping this all posts right, considering the first time I went to post it my cat thought it would be fun to hit the backspace button and make everything go away...


End file.
